Skyhammer (11 page)

“Words to that effect. He said—”

“What was wrong with the captain—did he say that?”

“No, sir. I asked. He wouldn’t tell me.”

Under the checklist heading, “Number of hijackers,” Searing wrote “1?” and beside it “PILOT?” He looked up at Quarry, who
shook his head.

“Mr. Slusser,” Searing said, keying the phone again. “You got any sense on this? The guy under coercion or is he for real?”

“In my opinion—for real. He hasn’t given out any covert signals, not one. Maybe it’s possible somebody’s got a gun to his
head—another pilot maybe, somebody else who knows the signals. But I don’t think so. He just doesn’t sound like it. Especially
when he said what he was planning to do.”

“What
are
his intentions?” Searing asked, drawing a circle around the question mark after PILOT. “What does he plan to do?”

Slusser took a few seconds before he replied, “Apparently, crash the plane in Phoenix. At least that’s what he’s intimated.”

Searing stared at Quarry, whose eyes registered astonishment. Searing wrote “CRASH PLANE—PHOENIX” into the space for “Subject’s
Stated Intentions.”

“Demands?” he asked Slusser.

“The only demand he’s made so far was that I call Washington.”

“That’s all?”

“So far. I tried to find out what weapon he had, but he said it didn’t matter, to just call NAMFAC.”

“Stated grievance?”

“Sort of. “Slusser paused again before he said, “Jack Farra-day.”

For a second the name Farraday didn’t register with Searing. Then it clicked. Quarry nodded in recognition.

“He said,” Slusser continued, “that maybe he’d ’drive the plane right into New World headquarters in Phoenix.”

As he wrote “REVENGE—JACK FARRADAY” into the space for grievance, Searing realized the magnitude of what faced him. Had any
pilot ever done this before? He didn’t think so. He looked at the “Intention” again.

“The subject said
maybe
?”

“Yes,” Slusser answered. “I remember that specifically. He said he didn’t know but ‘maybe’ that’s what he’d do. But then he
said there
would
be a major air disaster when he got there. At least I think that’s what he said.”

Searing noted this in the space for intentions. “All right, sir,” he said when he’d finished. “What else?”

“I’ve got his name.”

“Good. Let’s have it.” Searing copied the name into the space for number of hijackers. Emil Pate—an odd name. But then the
whole thing was odd as hell. No hard demands yet. Except that the hijacker wanted to talk to the people at the top. That indicated
he had a statement to make.

“Do you have his ETA?” Searing asked.

“My equipment indicates twenty fifty-one, Zulu.”

Searing glanced up at the facility’s large master clock with its prominent LED display of universal coordinated, or “Zulu,”
time in Greenwich, England, the world standard for aviation time-keeping. It was now 17:31 So they had just over three hours,
if
Phoenix were actually the final destination. For all they knew, this Emil Pate could be teetering on the edge at this point,
ready to nose-dive, literally.

“You think he’s stable enough for now, Mr. Slusser?”

“I’d say, Yes. He sounded awfully damn calm.”

“Any sign the passengers know what’s in progress?”

“No. My guess is they don’t know. He’d be better off that way.”

“What about the flight attendants?”

“I don’t know. You’d think it’d be hard to keep them in the dark for very long.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” Searing agreed. “Okay. You do good work, Mr. Slusser. Feel like carrying the ball for a couple more minutes?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“All we’re asking for: Tell him we’re informed. Tell him we’ll be making contact soon as we get an ARINC hookup. Tell him
ten minutes. After that tell him you don’t know what the hell the hold up is. String him out. We’ll need twenty minutes to
get a negotiator in here. Don’t hassle him. Talk to him if he wants to be talked to. Otherwise let him be. I’ll get back to
you soon as we got the response coordinated.”

“Roger that.”

Searing had a nervous habit of loosening and tightening the knot of his tie. He tightened it now, then switched off the speakerphone
and looked at Quarry.

“What do you make of this?”

Quarry shrugged a shoulder. “My guess? You know what Jack Farraday’s done.”

“Right,” Searing said. He rose to his feet, still holding the handset. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his booming voice
easily penetrating the room’s normal background din. “Kansas City’s got a hijacking in progress. Designees please report.”

He brought the handset back to his ear and pressed 1114.

“Operations,” a voice said after one buzz. “Bob Stouffer.”

“Bob,” Searing said, “We got a hijacking. No drill this time. I’m activating the ACC, and put a call in to the administrator.
We’re coming straight up.” He turned back to Quarry. “Get on the line to the Bureau and get a negotiator over here fast as
possible. Somebody with experience if possible.”

From the half-dozen designees that gathered around his desk, Searing chose two, John Travis, the controller for the Southwest
section, and Peggy Lofton, the Northeast controller. Travis had a cool head and was virtually a computer when it came to remembering
data. Lofton was less good with details but better at seeing what no one else could. Both had been through a score of drills
as well as false hijackings. Within two minutes they were aboard the elevator, riding up to the eleventh floor.

The Aviation Command Center was located almost directly above Flow Control. When the elevators opened, the group made its
way past the administrator’s office, a row of offices and conference rooms, and then down a narrow hallway. Finally they came
to the two metal doors of room 1114, painted the same ugly pale yellow as the surrounding walls. The first was labeled OPERATIONS,
the second AIR TRAFFIC COMMAND. Searing pushed open the door to Operations and nearly slammed it into Bob Stouffer, who was
coming through another door connecting Operations to the ACC.

“We set?” Searing asked.

“Set,” Stouffer answered, “but I gotta warn you, they’re starting renovation in here on Monday, so we’ve moved a bunch of
stuff into the command center. I tried to make space.”

Searing pushed open the inner door to the ACC. It was a room the same size as Operations, not much bigger than his living
room. There were no windows to the outside but three large glass windows in the wall between the two rooms. In front of the
windows, on a carpeted platform six inches above the floor, was the principal’s station, a simple, Formica table with two
high-backed, overstuffed swivel chairs pushed up to it. This was where Searing was supposed to sit, along with his number-two
man. They would face three more tables that were curved and fit together to form a bank of six stations known as the “Horseshoe.”
On the wall behind the horseshoe, opposite the principal’s station, two large National Geographic maps were displayed, one
of the United States and the other of the world. A row of digital readouts were mounted above the maps and labeled with the
names of major cities around the globe. When activated they would tell the times in those places.

On his previous visits, Searing had been impressed with the emptiness of the room, as compared with most spaces in the FAA
building, which were overfilled with desks, filing cabinets, and odds and ends of furniture, all belying the fact that the
agency was outgrowing its home. But now the ACC seemed to have finally been caught in the tide of clutter. Boxes were stacked
everywhere, along with piles of paper, stacks of spiral binders, and pieces of equipment he did not even recognize. Pushed
to the far end of the horseshoe were two TV monitors and VCR’s, plus two surveillance-camera monitors. As part of security,
Operations viewed and reviewed all news items that concerned aviation and the FAA, and they also maintained surveillance on
restricted areas in the building.

Behind the horseshoe, the room was filled with overstuffed swivel chairs, crowded together like cattle in a stock pen.

“We’re testing new chairs too,” Stouffer explained. “So you’ve got your pick of the litter.”

“You get the the administrator?”

Stouffer shook his head. “Up in Montreal this weekend.”

“And Rodgers?”

“In Annapolis. I’ve put in a call, and they’re getting word to him.”

“All right.” Searing nodded. He disliked Corbett Rodgers, the assistant administrator, even more than the administrator, but
someone from the administrator’s office had to be in on this, or notified at least. He crossed the room and mounted the stage
to the principal’s station. He’d never liked this setup either. The way it separated him from the others made him feel as
though he was there to grade their performances. It only hampered communications.

He turned and looked at Lofton and Travis, both seated in the center of the horseshoe, where Stouffer had cleared space. Searing
glanced over the checklist he’d brought up from NAMFAC. Then he explained the situation quickly and concisely, watching their
faces, assessing reactions. They showed surprise, but they were disciplined and well trained.

“Peggy,” he said, “before you do anything else, get on the phone to New World and tell them we’ll want Jack Farra-day calling
us soon as he can. Let them know it’s a hijacking. And tell them to evacuate their headquarters. Find out where the hell in
the city it is, too. We’ll probably have to evacuate everything around it.” He paused, realizing his own authority might be
needed in dealing with New World. “On second thought, I’ll call them. Peggy, you check the tape recorders first. And you’ll
keep the log. John, I want you running lines to Sky Harbor and any other airports that might be involved. K.C.’s already on.
Get Albuquerque. Denver and Wichita. Get ‘em all on standby for emergency landing. And the airport authority at Cleveland
will want to know the nature of any weapon and how he got it aboard, so make sure we don’t forget that. Make sure you give
any such information to the right people and the right people only. Both of you back each other. I’ll back you. Travis is
the deputy. He’ll handle the FBI stuff, and anything to do with local law agencies, emergency agencies.” He paused to let
them finish their notes. For a moment there was only the quiet murmur of the building’s heating systems. Then he continued.

“It goes without saying this situation, if it’s for real, is unprecedented. At the same time, we don’t have much choice but
to try and contain it with established procedures. So we’re starting with our normal chains.”

Searing eyed each of them. “It also goes without saying that time is of the essence in this situation. But I want us keeping
in mind that
control’s
what we’ve got to maintain, and it’s thoroughness that leads to control. Let’s cover all the bases.” He saw by their expressions
that his emphasis had registered. “All right then,” he said, “let’s get the show rollin’.”

He turned and sat down. Had he forgotten anything so far? The light began to blink on his telephone. It was Quarry downstairs.

“They’ve got Brian L’Hommedieu,” he said. “But he’s at home.”

Searing knew L’Hommedieu—they’d worked together on the same response-team during two exercises. The agent was in his thirties,
a West point graduate, had a master’s in psychology, had taught some anti-terrorist courses at the Bureau. But he didn’t have
much actual negotiating experience, not as much as Searing had hoped for. And L’Hommedieu had always seemed a little too WASPish.
No, he would not have been his first choice. But then again, he didn’t dislike him, and L’Hommedieu had always seemed smart
enough and a good team player—didn’t try to overstep his role. Besides, with so few domestic hijackings in the last decade,
who did have experience?

“Send a car for him,” he told Quarry. “And have him call in on the way.”

Next, Searing opened the line to the switchboard and asked to be put through directly to the office of John H. Farraday, Chairman
of New World Air Corporation in Phoenix.

“This is Mark Rydell,” a man said a minute later, his voice sharp with apprehension. “Vice President of Flight Operations
at New World Airlines. How can I help you, Mr. Searing?”

“I need to speak to Mr. Farraday. Right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Rydell said after a moment. “Mr. Farraday isn’t here. In fact, he isn’t even in Phoenix today. He’s over in Albuquerque
at a pilots’ meeting. Maybe—”

“This is urgent,” Searing said. “And confidential.”

“I can relay a message. He’d be in the middle of the meeting right now, though.”

Searing thought about it, decided he had no choice but to tell Ryder.

Afterward, Rydell was quiet for so long Searing wondered if he’d heard. Then, in a low voice Rydell said, “Are you sure about
this?”

“The pilot contacted us.”

Again Rydell was quiet. Ten seconds went by, and Searing’s impatience grew. Finally Rydell said, “Could you give me your number,
please? I’ll reach Mr. Farraday.”

Searing gave him a direct line to the command center, explaining that he wanted the line left open to New World headquarters
and that they’d switch it over as soon as Farraday called.

Then he replaced the handset and looked at the clock on the wall and then at the TV monitors in the Operations room, on the
other side of the windows. One problem was already solved, he realized. There’d be no football game.

Vienna, Virginia

17:48 GMT/12:48 EST

Brian L’Hommedieu was in the kitchen when the telephone rang. He went on carefully slicing the loaf of fresh dark-rye bread.
Nothing would disturb him today, not calls from relatives or old friends or carpet-cleaning salespeople. He had already taken
care of the half-dozen minor obligations Saturdays usually required of him—bundling the newspapers, helping his wife sort
laundry, attempting to find the source of the squeak in the typing-chair in the den, and calling his mother. The slate was
clean now, and he would spend the next three hours in front of the television, watching the Army-Navy game.